


you have somewhere to be

by deiectus



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Break Up, M/M, POV Second Person, Sex, the au where they row crew
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-18
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-15 10:05:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/848254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deiectus/pseuds/deiectus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“He doesn’t want to talk to you, Erik,” Raven sighs. You focus your anger in your right hand and curl it into a painful fist so that you don’t crush the phone in your left. The anger is— it’s at yourself, at Raven, at him, and then no, of course not, you’re not angry at Charles, and you wince as a spike of guilt lances through your chest of even thinking to be angry at him. This is your fault your fault your fault.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. erik

“He doesn’t want to talk to you, Erik,” Raven sighs. You focus your anger in your right hand and curl it into a painful fist so that you don’t crush the phone in your left. The anger is— it’s at yourself, at Raven, at him, and then no, of course not, you’re not angry at Charles, and you wince as a spike of guilt lances through your chest of even thinking to be angry at him. This is your fault your fault your fault.

You’re staring at the rain sluicing down your windshield. There’s nothing to see beyond it; it’s coming down so hard that you can’t see out your car windows and it’s like you’re stuck in this box— _your_ car, _your_ box—and it _hurts_ and you wish you could—

“Erik?” Raven asks, “Are you there?” Her tone is edged with more than disappointment and annoyance (Charles could tell; he could always tell) but those are the only things you feel from it right now. They join the guilt and form a caustic, simmering soup inside your ribs.

“When does his flight get in,” you ask, your voice gravel rough. _It’s been two months_ , you don’t say. You always helped Charles organize and keep track of his schedule now that he’d started the second half of his work on his genetics PhD. He’s been at a conference in London for the last two weeks. You know that he’s returning on Friday night. Tonight.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“The last event related to your thesis is on Wednesday afternoon,” you grumble, squinting at the schedule. “Why are you staying through Friday?”_

_Charles turns to you and smiles—it’s the small, fond one that you see so sparingly that you think it’s just for you. “Darling,” he says softly. “There are a few talks and a seminar on Thursday that I’m interested in.”_

_Your lips twitch, fighting off a smile. You save yourself by letting them slide into a smirk. “You just want to go to the closing reception on Thursday night.”_

_“That I do, thank you very much,” Charles says, taking the paper out of your hands. “I’ll appreciate you not judging me more severely than I deserve.” He turns away from you and now you smile where he can’t see, now you wrap your arms around him and press your smile into his neck._

_“You should change your middle name to ‘open bar’,” you tease, feeling the shudder of his laughter through his chest. You know his choice to stay longer is less about the drinks and more about seeing old classmates._

_“Francis is a perfectly respectable middle name,” Charles murmurs, and reaches up to press a hand into your hair, absentmindedly stroking it as he continues filling out and signing forms. “Though I doubt either of us would be surprised if its etymology had something to do with alcohol.” He’s not too proud to be hurt by your teasing. You don’t mean anything by it._

Through the line, you hear Raven sigh again. The next sounds are her footsteps. You always paid more attention to Charles than to her, but you noticed her habit of pacing. Her silence makes you even more anxious. You uncurl your fist and press your open palm against the dashboard.

“Why should I tell you, Erik?” she finally asks. She likes you. You know she wants to, even if it’s not by that much. “What would this change?”

“I need to fix this,” you say, surprising yourself. The shock drips cold through your body and you start to fear, start to think up reasons to defend your statement and ways to deny it—the thoughts run through your head quickly and you think _calm down_ but then you think of Charles, fuck—

and then you remember that yes, you do need to fix this. You want to fix this. And fuck anyone who says differently and tells you that you shouldn’t because you’re going to fucking fix it.

“I need to fix this,” you say again, your voice steadier this time. You can’t stand this anymore. It took you four weeks of being angry and two of feeling sorry for yourself and then two more of deciding.

Raven hasn’t said anything. You wait a few more seconds and then break, beginning to say her name, and she cuts you off.

“Seven thirty-two.”

You close your eyes and write the numbers on the dark behind your eyelids and into your brain. 7:32. You won’t forget. Everything is going to be better now. You’re going to be better now.

“Erik, I swear to God, if you—”

“Thank you, Raven,” you say, and end the call. It’s 6:45. You have somewhere to be.

By 7, the rain has slowed to a drizzle and you’re just pulling onto the highway. Normally, you’d be pushing fifteen over when at this level of nervousness, but for as bad a driver as Charles is, he always hated when you drove recklessly. You drive a mere five over (you’re in the left lane, after all) and even use your turn signal. Maybe if you continue practicing little changes like this, you’ll start doing them as habit and they’ll mean something.

You let impatient drivers pass you and grit your teeth against obscenities bubbling up in your throat. You think _calm_ again and again and try to pull up a memory of an encouraging word or look of Charles’ that doesn’t hurt. This is not the time to feel sorry for yourself. This is the time to act.

You get into the arrivals pick up area at 7:35. Charles left his car with Raven and she would be picking him up, but its stalling problem escalated in frequency this past week and it’s in the shop. He’ll be looking for a taxi. You park near the cabs. You should have been the one originally picking him up.

 

 

 

 

 

_Charles never makes decisions in anger. Not like you do. He drives home that night after you both screamed for hours and comes back the next morning with suitcases and boxes in his trunk and the back of his car. He doesn’t bring them in, but you’d seen them through the window. Not that you hadn’t thought this was coming._

_You let him in and let him sit you down on the couch. He sits on the other side of it. It feels wrong. He tells you he’s leaving._

_“Why,” you ask before you can help yourself. You know why. He tells you anyway. You didn’t hear the words then, but they came back to you later, over and over again._

_You can’t look at him. His voice is rough. He’s been crying. Is he crying now? He is firm and polite and you’d hate him if it was just his upbringing and you know that it’s not._

_“I’ll come get my things tomorrow, or I could send someone else to if you’d prefer that.”_

_You immediately decide to leave the city for a few days and get shitfaced in some middle of nowhere. You nod numbly. “You can get them. You still have a spare key.”_

_“I’ll leave it when I’m done,” he says, and in the corner of your eye you see him start to stretch out his arm, to reach out and touch your knee. You know the gesture. He doesn’t complete it. You don’t say anything else, still staring at the floor, until he leaves._

You haven’t really heard from him since. It’s still winter training for the team even though it’s March, and though the once-weekly team workout at the university campus is optional, you haven’t gone to any of them. You went to the team meetings because they were mandatory, but you did your best not to look at him and one of you left before the other could say hello.

The rain stops completely a few minutes before he steps out of the airport. You’re finishing your cigarette—you couldn’t get rid of that one for him, though you’ve been trying—and you’ve just crushed it under your shoe when you look up and see him.

He looks at the cars first, as if by some miracle the car is out of the shop and Raven is here or anyone has come to get him. He couldn’t possibly be thinking of you, you think before you can help yourself. You crush the thought and grit your teeth. He could be thinking anything. You don’t know. It should make you feel better, but it makes you feel worse.

Finally, he takes a few more steps and turns to the taxi area. The last few have just left and you see the disappointment thin his lips. You would have kissed him, would have kissed his mouth, his face, would have licked and prodded at his lips with your tongue until he let you in—you’d accomplish this by stealthily moving your hands up and down his sides and then suddenly tickle him, forcing him to squirm and cough false laughter until it turned into real amusement and he smiled again.

He’s getting closer and he’ll see you any second now. You swallow and stop leaning against your car; you stand and lift your chin a bit higher, steeling yourself. You keep your shoulders neutral. You keep your arms neutral, hanging by your sides. You try your hardest not to let your hands curl into fists. You need to look open.

He sees you.

He stops.

His grip slackens on his suitcase but he catches it. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t even walk to the right, to where a cab has pulled in, though you follow his eyes to it and know that he’s considering it. You don’t blame him. You would. You probably would have walked right past him and gotten into that cab without even looking at him.

You want to walk up to him. You don’t. You’ve played your move by coming here. Any others at this point would be cheating.

He walks to you.

 

 

 

 

 

_“At some point you’re going to need to accept that a vendetta is not solved by murder, Erik!” Charles yells at you._

_“If it’s a vendetta, then it’s revenge, so yes, murder does the job,” you snarl._

_He shakes his head, eyes wide in anger and disbelief. “You can’t go through with this, Erik. I can’t let you.”_

_However angry you were before is nothing to how you furious are now. “You can’t_ let _me?” you snap, looming over him._

_“Yes,” he says, glaring up at you. His voice catches. “I know what you—I know that Shaw—what he did was… but you can’t, you can’t just…” he’s about to start crying. You hate him for crying. “Erik, it will change you, and even if you somehow escape getting caught, you’ll—”_

_“However I want to solve this is none of your business!” You yell, taking a step forward, but he takes three toward you, and you step back._

_“Of course it is!” He’s crying freely now and is obviously angry at himself for it, reaching up to wipe his face as he talks. “I love you, I_ love _you, Erik, and I will help you solve this, I want to help you solve this, but killing him will not help you in any way, please.”_

_You do want to kill Shaw. You know you won’t actually do it. Fuck Charles for assuming you would and judging you for it, fuck him for thinking he has any idea what you’ve gone through. “Fuck you,” you snarl, “you have no right—”_

_His face crumples and you stop. You’re causing that pain and you catch a flash of remorse for it, but you won’t change what you said. Fuck him for trying to make you to, fuck him for—_

_Charles covers his face, sobbing into his hands a few times. You’re frozen by anger, fear, revulsion, self-loathing, something, you’re not sure what._

_“Fine,” he finally says, wiping his hands down his face. “I can’t do this any longer. I can’t have this fight with you over and over again, Erik. I can’t do this if Shaw is the most important person in your life and I’m not.”_

_You’re too stunned to say anything and by the time you process what he’s said, he’s already out your door._

He stops walking after the first two steps toward you. He’s still too far away for you to see his face well, but you know all the tells, you know how to recognize his shift in expressions from the tone of his voice over a telephone call.

He’s exhausted. He wouldn’t normally be tapping his fingers in a frantic, arrhythmic pattern against his leg. Charles is composed. Charles rarely shows anything in public. His hair is more of a mess than usual and the shadows cast on his face by the overcast sky over-dramatize what must already be significant bags under his eyes. Is he angry, or nervous? Your mouth starts to grow dry and you swallow again, shifting your feet slightly to fight against the sinking, sickening feeling taking hold in your stomach.

He ducks his head sharply and curses under his breath. A woman to his left glances at him and clears her throat, pulling her toddler close. He notices (of course he does) but he just looks at her and mumbles an apology he doesn’t mean. (You can’t hear this, but you’re seeing it).

And now you know that this is, for sure, fucked. You feel yourself start to slide off the edge, thinking _waste of time_ and _never should have come here_ but then you remember something the therapist you’d been assigned after you walked away from the Olympics said to you. _If nothing changes, Erik, nothing changes._ You’re here and you’re trying _something_ so maybe, maybe—

You’ve looked away and so don’t see him come toward you. If you were looking, you’d see that since you can’t see him, he’s let himself rub at his eyes and is now walking determinedly toward you. You look up when you hear the scrape of plastic wheels against the concrete grow louder and you know that he’s certainly walking toward you now, and in the next minute he’ll be right in front of you for the first time in two months, and you see that his eyes are red and you _hate_ yourself because his eyes were red the last time you were this close and maybe nothing has changed.

You’re desperate, though, because Charles is your last chance and if you don’t have him, then what do you have? You start to think you’d have him even if he hated you, just as long as he talked to you, and you know you actually probably couldn’t deal with that, but here you are, standing back straight and defenseless and he’s walking toward you and it feels like he could be a firing squad, a battering ram, but he’s Charles, so maybe he’ll give you a cigarette and your last words.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_You had kept yourself away from him for what felt like so long after that regatta, after that morning when you woke up and he looked at you with eyes that burned, looked at you like you were the most momentous and amazing thing he’d ever seen, and you let him—no, you told him, but that was your way of asking—fuck you, and it was different than before (it wasn’t fucking, it wasn’t even sex, you don’t know what it was and yet you do know what it was: slow and deep and vulnerable). It had begun to be different for a little while but this sealed it, and you were so terrified after the afterglow had worn off that once he’d left, you’d run out of your apartment and to the gym and spent the day on the machines trying to feel something else but panic._

_He was getting tired of it, your insults, your silence. You hated how when you looked at him you saw that he_ understood.

_He waited you out, even up to banging on your door in the middle of September when it was raining so hard that you doubted he could even see._

_You didn’t let him in. You didn’t call the police even when your neighbor called to ask if everything was alright, Erik? there’s a man yelling on your doorstep._

_It was probably crueler to not call the police._

_You left him outside that night and drank yourself to sleep. The world was unforgiving because you woke up early, just after dawn, and you downed a cup of coffee before you remembered the night before. You almost ran to your door and when you opened it he was still there, slumped against the outer door, asleep and wet and shivering._

_You didn’t have a chance. You never should have expected to._

_You picked him up without thinking and carried him to your bathroom. He woke up in your arms and nodded assent when you asked if it was alright that you were taking his clothes off, and then you took off your own and took him into the shower, supporting him because he’d barely slept and was doing his best to stay awake. You ran the water warm and then hot when his skin had gotten warmer, you ran your hands over him, quick and efficient, rubbing circulation back into limbs that were in far less danger than you thought._

_You toweled him off and dressed him in your warmest clothes and carried him to your bed, put on extra blankets and wrapped yourself around him. He smiled slightly and thanked you. You wrapped your arm closer around his back and gently pressed his face into your shoulder so you wouldn’t have to look at him and wouldn’t have to feel quite so guilty._

_You still feel guilty when you wake up late that afternoon. You’ve missed practice and god knows what else you had to do today. So has he. In your sleep, the two of you had untangled yourselves a bit and so now you see his face when you open your eyes. There’s a small crease between his eyebrows but you hope that it’s nothing other than solving some chemical equation in a dream that’s bothering him. He looks calm and tired and vulnerable, and again you tighten your arm around him. He stirs but doesn’t wake._

_You press a tentative kiss to his forehead and think, yes, alright, you love him. And you’re never going to do anything like let him spend a night outside in the rain again._

 

You expect him to look angrier when you can see his face clearly. He doesn’t. He just looks tired, resolute, and sad. The two of you look at each other for a moment (it’s probably unfair that the weeks of separation reflect worse on him at the moment, but oh, if he could only look inside you) and you don’t speak, you know it’s not your right.

“ _What_ are you—” Charles starts to say, eyes pained. Your eyes narrow in concern and you frown before you can help it, and he sees this and tilts his chin to the side, biting his lip as if he’s about to chastise you. He presses a hand over his mouth instead and _you hate yourself_ , but not more than you wish, by some magic, that you could stop being the thing that makes him cry.

Charles blinks quickly and removes his hand, exhaling loudly. His body shakes. He looks down at the ground and then back up at you. His gaze is scrutinizing. _I know,_ you don’t say, _I deserve it_.

“Are you,” he begins again. His voice is still unsteady. “Are you here to pick me up?”

You nod, because if you speak right now, you won’t stop talking. Your chest swells with apologies until it feels like you’ll either have to burst or they’ll need to come out some other way; bleed out through your pores until they’re written across your skin. It certainly feels like they are.

Charles nods and bites his lip again. “Okay.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Okay.” He swallows. “Is this— is this your— an attempt at reconciliation?”

“Yes,” you breathe, and then the dam breaks and your face falls with it. You take a step forward and it hurts that Charles flinches and steps back but you don’t retreat. “Charles,” you say, and your voice is needy and desperate and rough and you can’t even be ashamed over it. You want to say _I’m sorry_ and _please_ but you know you’re in no place to expect anything. So you say, “God, I’m so sorry. I—” and he cuts you off by holding up a hand before you can continue. As you spoke, he’d watched you warily, but now his face is closed.

“Take me home,” he says. His tone is resigned, almost cold.

“Okay,” you say, a bit of hope beginning to flutter in your chest, “okay.” And then you pause, because which…? “Do you. Do you mean your apartment,” you stumble through.

Charles shakes his head. “No. Raven might—” his knuckles go white around the handle of his suitcase but he meets your eyes, head held proud and his eyes determined and _god,_ how had you ever thought this was needless arrogance, he’s _beautiful_. “Take me home.”

You nod and step toward him again. He steps back again, watching you carefully, until he notices that you’re only moving to take his bags. He lets you take them and put them in the trunk. As he pulls on his coat, you notice then that he’s dressed in old brown corduroys and a thick navy sweater that you know was a gift from Raven. He’s not wearing a collared shirt, just an old white t-shirt (too old to be one of yours, though you hope it is before you can help yourself).

You go to open the door for him but he waves you away, opening it himself and falling into the seat with a small, tired groan. When you’ve gotten into the driver’s seat and fit your keys into the ignition, he speaks again.

“Erik,” he says. It’s the first time he’s said your name all evening. You glance over, but he’s not looking at you. “I want to eat something, and I need a shower, and you and I are going to talk about this in the morning.”

He looks at you then, and you nod. He looks less sad now and more resigned, almost as if he’s surrendered. It’s worse than if he were crying, worse in a different way, and you hate it. You wish you could touch him. He’s looking at you, at all of you, and his gaze keeps coming back to your face. You don’t notice how his fingers uncurl on his thighs.

Finally, he exhales and turns away from you. “Let’s go.”

You start the car and pull out toward the highway.

You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you drive home. You can't help it-- your first instinct when it comes to Charles has always been to protect him. (Your second has always been to disagree.)

His eyes, already tired, begin to close and open slowly five minutes after you get onto the highway. His eyelids soon droop and in another ten minutes he's fallen asleep. You remember how he used to sleep in the passenger seat of your car-- boneless and open, his head leaning in the direction of your shoulder (sometimes his head would slide off the seat and he'd wake up with a jolt; you always tried to catch him before that could happen so that he could stay asleep). Charles has always been able to sleep wherever he sits. You have been, too, but you fall asleep out of necessity, uncomfortable and stiff.

Charles is sleeping more like you would in a car, now. His body is turned toward you, but he's more on the right of the seat, his arms crossed and his shoulders a straight line. His brow has smoothed in sleep, but a frown still hangs around his mouth.

You're relieved he said to drive to your place for many reasons (and terrified: you don't know whether this is a good or bad sign, but then again, you rarely did) and one is that he wouldn't have food in his fridge and you do in yours. In fact, you have leftovers that you can heat up in a few minutes. That saves you from time spent awkwardly waiting for takeout or preparing him a meal.

He wakes up from the sound of the garage door opening when you pull into your driveway. He rubs at his eyes absently and gropes for the edges of his coat. You've buttoned it up for him in the last. He would smile fondly and kiss your jaw. You clench your teeth together now, and do not reach out to help him or reach up to touch your face.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_"Honestly," Charles sighs, "I can take care of myself. Stop making such a fuss, Erik."_

_You ignore him and continue to rub his right hand between the two of yours, perhaps a bit too roughly. You also ignore the rest of the team, in particular Angel, who'd smirked and murmured something to Raven about embroidering a heart and your initials and Charles's into the corner of your rough wool blanket that the two of you always share at regattas._

_"It's only ten degrees above freezing and you left your gloves at home," you say, inspecting his hand and letting him take it back as you reach for his left. "You didn't ask to bother mine, why would you." You pause, making sure you aren't irritating any of his blisters. "And then you rowed your event anyway because you thought your skin was impervious to damp wood and chilled water."_

_You haven't been looking anywhere but his hands for the past ten minutes, but you feel a prickling sensation on the back of your neck that spreads down across your shoulders. He hasn't been looking anywhere but at you._

_When you're satisfied with how warm his hands are, you hand them back. You twist to your left to pick up your gloves, but Charles stops you by laying a hand on the side of your face. You allow him to turn your head toward him. The soft look on his face makes your stomach clench._

_You swallow. He lowers his hand to brush his thumb down the line of your jaw. Charles smiles at you and leans in to press a kiss to the side of your mouth. "Thank you, mother," he murmurs._

 

You carry his luggage up the stairs and he follows behind you, looking at the floor while you get out your keys. When you've opened the door, you step aside to let him enter first, and Charles spares you a brief glance before picking up his bags (you open your mouth to protest but think better of it) and walking into your living room. After you've closed and locked the door and hung up your coat, you turn around and see him walking out of your bedroom.

"I want to sleep on a real bed, Erik," he says. "Yours was always nicest." He gives you a tight smile. You nod, and walk over to him, holding your hand out for his coat and scarf. Charles murmurs his thanks and hands them to you, then heads for your kitchen. He looks good in here, and you're not sure if it's aesthetics or just your own desire to have him near. You think you are weak because of this. You think Charles would tell you that, on the contrary, you are strong because of it.

"I can make you food," you call out as you walk to the closet.

"I'll just heat something up." His voice is faint.

"Really, Charles," you begin, starting to grow irritated. "I'll--" but then you walk into the kitchen and see him-- rather, you see his face in a moment when he thinks you aren’t looking. It's just a flash and then it's gone, but the pain you see instantly shuts you up.

A cool mask falls over Charles's face as he turns to the fridge and opens the door. He doesn’t look back at you as he asks, voice low, "You'll what, Erik?"

You stand behind the counter island and curl your fingers into fists. "Nothing," you mutter. You hope your voice isn’t really as hoarse as it just sounded to you. "What would you like to eat?"

He pulls out a container of leftover lasagna. While he heats it up, you throw together a small salad. Your phone vibrates in your pocket while you’re cutting up a cucumber. It’s Raven. You don’t open the text. She sends another ten minutes later. You ignore it, too.

When you look up to hand Charles a bowl of salad, you notice that he looks uncomfortable again—the quick burst of confidence was fleeting, then. You recognize that you could use this moment to say something cutting or comforting. You also recognize that you have place to do neither at the moment. You don’t care to cause him pain for any reason other than it’s the way you protect yourself and you’re feeling vulnerable at the moment, and you aren’t welcome to offer the latter. You aren’t sure you really want to, either.

You do want him, you think while he’s eating. You really do. You truly do. You want him more than you want to be comfortable. You want him more than you want to be safe. But you’re so used to being comfortable and safe that you don’t know how to change, and you don’t want to have to change.

Charles eats quietly while you think. You look over at him when he’s finishing his salad, and wonder what’s going through his mind. Does he want you? How can you know that? Does it mean that he wants you because he came home with you? Does it mean that he doesn’t want you because he came home with you? Does it mean he doesn’t want you because he’s keeping his distance? You’re familiar with your own desire for distance. That doesn’t mean you understand Charles. He was always open with you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

_“I had a terrible time of it, first learning how to row.”_

_You’re in the boathouse after practice sorting the cox boxes and headsets. The team is low on tape. You frown._

_Behind you, Charles is sitting with his arm around Anna Marie. You look over your shoulder and see him move to crouch in front of her. He picks up a roll of tape and wraps it gently around the second finger of her left hand._

_“I never did much hard or physical work growing up,” he continues. She is crying, but he doesn’t bring any attention to it. “When I was finishing up my undergrad here, and Raven came to visit me and found out that the university had a crew team,” he smiles, “she bullied me into it so I wouldn’t die from an overly sedentary lifestyle.”_

_“But you’re a great coxswain,” Anna Marie says softly, her voice stuttering from how thick her throat is._

_Charles looks up and smiles, his eyes soft. Is he really touched by that? you wonder. His team only praises him. But he does look as if he is. “Thank you, Anna Marie,” Charles says, “that’s very good to hear.”_

_He tells her amusing stories of his various disasters while learning to row, some of them more embarrassing than you’d think he’d share with strangers like Anna Marie. Some of them you haven’t heard from him. Some of them you haven’t even heard from Raven._

_After he’s helped her wrap up her blisters and given her a quick rundown of a care regimen for making sure they harden into calluses, and also some stretches for back pain, Charles walks Anna Marie to the door of the boathouse and squeezes her shoulder. “Chin up, love,” you hear him say, “you’re doing fine.” She gives him a watery smile and heads out._

_He walks back to you, hands clasped behind his back, thoughtful. You push the boxes of things back into the cabinets and close them, then look at him. He was looking away from you in thought, but turns to meet your eyes when you turn to him. Charles is so easy with you; he doesn’t mind your silence and doesn’t assume that you always have something to say when you come near him._

_You press a hand to the small of his back and he closes his eyes, smiling slightly._

_“They’ll disrespect you,” you say. “You’re supposed to lead them, not show them you’re fallible.”_

_“Telling them those stories helps them,” Charles says, opening his eyes to look at you. “It shows them that I’m not perfect. That I’m like them. That more than anything else helps hold a team together.”_

_“They could use it against you,” you insist. “You even go and talk to other crew teams at regattas and tell them things like that.”_

_Charles shrugs. “I’m not in the business of cutting people down, Erik. I tell you worse things.”_

I could hurt you with the things you tell me, _you don’t say._ I already have.

_He runs a hand down your arm. “I prefer to try to trust people. I would rather hold out hope that some day my efforts will be reciprocated rather than sit in distrust and despair.”_

_You blink at him, shocked. Few things could sound more wrong—but isn’t that how it is, with Charles? Isn’t that how it’s always been? You shake your head._

_“That’s just making yourself vulnerable when you have no need to be,” you say dismissively. You hold your tongue when you think of adding other things: you’re stupid, you’re weak,_ you’ll _just be cut down if you live that way._

_Charles looks up at you. His expression, so soft before, is now tight—and, you see: disappointed._

_You instantly switch to the defensive—well, offensive; it’s you. “Especially those other teams, and your colleagues at the university. They insult you. They criticize you.” Your tone is rising in urgency. “Maybe not often to your face, Charles, but they do. What’s the point of giving them second chances? What’s the point of helping someone negative? Someone who hurts you?”_

_As you were speaking, his face grew more and more pained—negative emotions only show subtly on Charles’s face (positive ones shine through and light his entire body up)—and when you finish, he abruptly takes away the hand that had been resting on your wrist, almost jerking it._

_You watch him think. For a second, his face grows pained, then he closes his eyes and schools his expression. “Why,” Charles begins, looking at a point over your shoulder, and then coming to look you in the eye, “why is it so important for you to criticize the way I choose to live my life, Erik? You’re creating a problem that needn’t be.”_

_“Because you’re wrong,” you blurt before you can help yourself, “it’s just stupid, Charles. You’re inviting people to hurt you.”_

_He again looks away and is quiet for a few moments before he responds to you. You’re a little confused—Charles has always had something to say in rapid-fire response to you._

_“I see,” he says. His tone is tight, nearly clipped—not the low, slow way in which he’d just spoken to you. “I’m not inviting anyone to hurt me. Their choices are entirely their own. Pushing their actions onto me is shaming me for something I have no control over.”_

_Charles turns around. You see that the line of his shoulders is straight, almost rigid, as he walks to his locker and duffel. He pulls his sweatshirt over his head and fits his arms through the sleeves, tugging the bottom hem down. “As you know,” he says before you can speak, “Raven and I are going out of town for a few days.”_

_His speech and movement right now aren’t radically different from how he normally moves, you notice, but you know it’s not the same. He’s not relaxed. It’s almost as if he’s concentrating to hold himself back, hold himself in, or something. And then you realize that this is a different type of fight—and why does it have to be a_ fight? _why can’t Charles just_ see?— _than those you’ve had before._

_“I’ll text you when we arrive at Westchester and I’ll text you when we’re back, of course.” Charles hasn’t looked at you at all while he’s been speaking. After he’s put his coat on and shouldered his duffel, he takes his phone out of his coat pocket and checks it. “Do have a nice time with yourself. I’ll see you later.”_

_He leaves you in the boathouse without another word, and you wonder how many more times you’re going to have a conversation that ends like this: you surprised, and him cold, walking away from you silently. He rarely lets you end anything on this note. Why is it different for him? Angry, you throw your things into your bag and lock up the boathouse, holding the keys so tightly that it hurts the newly-sensitive tips of your fingers. You curse and stomp off over to the gym, dropping the keys on Moira’s desk with no acknowledgement other than a grunt, and drive home._

You clean the dishes while he showers. You’ve been with him too long tonight to start thinking about the showers the two of you used to take together, or how you used to surprise him in the gym showers. You don’t blame yourself for letting your thoughts drift to thoughts of him naked—you’ve given up on any effective change you could make to that regard other than what you’ve already done tonight; thoughts of Charles that stay strictly to the abstract, physical region should do no harm.

He’s still in the bathroom after you finish with the dishes, so you wipe down the counters. You need to be doing something.

Finally, Charles walks out—you see him through the open doorway to your bedroom—toweling off his hair and dressed in old team sweats and a shirt. He throws a tired glance your way and you pause in your current task of turning off the lights for the night, looking back attentively, but he doesn’t say anything until he’s taken the towel back to your bathroom and walks to the other side of the room; you can’t see him through the doorway anymore, so presumably he went to the bed, from the quiet creak of springs you hear.

“I’m sleeping in your bed, but I’m not kicking you out of it, Erik.” He sounds so exhausted, nearly as if he’s half-asleep, that you wonder if he meant to say those words. “So come be the heater. We’ll talk… morning.”

When you were together, you would have griped about him having toes of ice, but right now you stay silent.

You hear the creak of springs again. He must be getting adjusted in the sheets.

This is a bad idea.

But… Charles is _right there_ and he’s been away _so long_. Surely one night wouldn’t hurt. It’s a large bed, and you’ve shared beds with people you didn’t like or were indifferent to. It’ll be fine.

You walk into your bedroom before you can change your mind, and don’t look at the bed until you’ve changed (in the bathroom; stripping in front of him is out of the question) into sweatpants. Only then do you allow yourself to look at the bed.

Charles left one of the bedside lamps on, and is curled up far to one side of the bed. There’s a good foot—no, two, maybe?—between the space you’ll take up and where he is.

This is a bad idea, you think again after you’ve gotten under the sheets and switched off the light. Then you hear him exhale softly in sleep, and think _damn it._ It may be a bad idea, but this whole attempt of yours never stood a chance. You want Charles, but you hurt him, and he’s smart enough to not take that risk again. His delaying of the conversation is mostlyfrom jet lag and general fatigue, yes, but some part of it either has to be kindness or… or cruelty, to draw it out even more.

You rub a hand over your face in the dark. You’ve played your hand, you remind yourself. It’s his move now. You were always too impatient with him. You could try to be patient now. Besides, a small part of you says, you’ve caused him enough pain. It’s only fair.

You wake up at the sound of rustling to your left. Your eyes open when you hear the slide of a drawer. What--? Oh. Right. Charles. Charles is in your bed. What time is it? It’s dark, so it can’t be before five. You push yourself up on your elbows and begin to turn to look at the clock—

and you freeze when you feel a hand on your chest.

“Erik,” Charles says, softly.

You turn back and see him on his side, suddenly very close to you. You hold yourself absolutely still, too groggy from sleep to think all that clearly. Charles looks down at his hand, then back to you. He still looks exhausted. You can’t tell if his eyes are dark from the shadows in your room or something else. Did he sleep at all? Or was it the time difference—

He kisses you, shorting out that train of thought. Startled, you jerk your head away, but you’re held fast. He must have slid his hand into your hair when he kissed you. “What,” you gasp, your heart rate quickening with anger and panic. “Charles—”

Charles shakes his head, pressing a finger to your lips. You can’t make out his expression in the dark. “Don’t speak,” he says, voice rough, and leans in to kiss you again, breathing, “I know this is a bad idea,” before your lips meet.

This time you don’t freeze when he kisses you, but you don’t reciprocate. He’s right. This is a horrible idea. “Charles,” you try again.

“ _Don’t_ ,” he says, and now that he’s close you can see his face, you can see the conflict that just flashed over it. His tone is so sharply desperate, though, that the sound shocks you—and goes straight to your gut. You set your teeth—this is the last time you should be turned on—but he kisses you again, and—it’s been so long, and here he is—

He closes his eyes and kisses again at your parted lips, trying to coax you to respond. You shudder and open your mouth to breathe in, and Charles pushes forward with a soft moan, licking into your mouth. God _damn_ it.

You wrap your arms around him and fist your hands in his shirt, pressing him against you as you kiss. His hands are roaming your back, your shoulders, his arms cradling your head to hold you closer—he’s so eager, nearly frantic, and you can’t help yourself. Charles winds his legs around yours underneath the sheets and presses up against your hip—you can feel the hard line of his dick against you and you groan.

He pulls away at last to breathe and you suck in a breath of your own. You can do little else but watch as he sits up to pull his shirt off and then get his hands on yours, forcing you to sit up so he can get it off. You kick the sheets off of both of you and get your hands in the hem of his sweatpants, pulling them down as he kisses you and does the same to yours. It’s clumsy and you’re knocking knees and elbows but you don’t care, or, at least, can’t seem to get yourself to care, because you’ve got your hands on Charles’s skin again and he’s biting into your mouth now.

“Come on,” he breathes, and pulls your wrist down between his legs, behind his cock. You shake your head—you’ll need—and you swallow when you feel the slick wetness of lubricant on his cheeks already. Charles just ruts against your hip again. “Come _on_ ,” he moans, needy, and you pull him close with your free arm and push a finger into him once you’ve gotten the angle right.

He gasps into your shoulder and you bite his neck—at that and a particularly vicious twist and thrust of your fingers, now two, inside of him, he cries out. _Jesus_. You’re grinding against one of his legs now too, and then you’ve worked three fingers inside of him—he’s panting and so are you—and oh, you could come from this, sex with Charles was always more intense than with anyone else and his voice always has done terrible things to you, he’s so filthy—

Your wrist is starting to cramp but you start to push in a fourth finger anyway—you’re not even thinking of fucking him at the moment, you just want to keep hearing him moan for you. “Yes,” you murmur, “just like that, so hard for me, aren’t you Char—”

You barely hear him whisper “ _don’t_ ,” before he kisses you hard, and for a moment you’re frozen, fingers half inside him, his precum smearing on your stomach. God, this is a horrible, horrible idea—

Charles grinds back onto your fingers and moans into your mouth, one of his hands wrapping around your cock and _pulling_ , and you forget what you were thinking. You push against him, bearing him down into the bed and crouching above him, fingers still pushing into him roughly—and faster, now that you’ve been working him open so long.

“Oh please,” he gasps, “that’s enough—”

 _Yes_ , you think. You take your fingers out and look down at him. He’s breathing heavily, one hand on his chest, the other on the bed next to his face. His eyes are half-lidded, but when you catch his gaze, he winces and shuts them abruptly, and tilts his chin and hips up.

You can’t refuse an invitation like that. Next to him on the side of the bed where he was sleeping is your bottle of lubricant and a handful of condoms—you grab one, hands shaking, and rip it open, rolling it down over your cock as quickly as you can. Charles cants his hips up again and you groan, gripping his hips tightly and pushing yourself inside of him with a grunt.

“Oh God,” he gasps, throwing an arm over his eyes (still closed), “ _yes_.”

You grit your teeth, pulling back (he’s not impossibly tight, but the hot grasp of him around your dick is still overwhelming) and beginning to thrust, just shallowly as you get yourself situated. Charles isn’t having any of that, however, and wraps his legs around your waist, pressing his heels into your ass. “Harder,” he breathes, “and faster.” His voice sounds far away.

Fucking minx. You thrust in hard just to hear him moan and do it again, staring down at him, at the arm over his eyes, at the flush all over his skin. And just as you start to fuck him faster, leaning down to rest on your forearms so you can just work your hips, you remember that he always, if he could, looked at your face during sex. His eyes are closed. This is _wrong_.

Your rhythm stutters. “Charles,” you manage.

“I said _don’t talk_ ,” Charles says sharply, and though his voice breaks, it still has the edge of a moan. He grinds against and clenches around you _hard_ and you groan, the sound ripped out of your throat. “Just fuck me,” he orders.

You start to move again and he twists underneath you, almost overly eager. No, he is overly eager, this is—this isn’t right, you shouldn’t—but it feels so good, _he_ feels so good, it’s been so long since you’ve had him. The guilt and pleasure twist uncomfortably in your gut. He’s not looking at you. He’s forbidding you to speak. This is _wrong_. You need to stop, you need to— no, you don’t need to do anything but fuck him.

You’re just gasping, not even moaning anymore, fucking into Charles hard and fast and jolting him roughly. His chest is nearly bouncing from the force of it. He’s turned his head to the side, his breath also coming in sharp, short gasps. Suddenly, he pushes his head back and moans, and you feel him shiver against you. He’s close. He wraps his arm around your back and digs his fingernails in, moaning, “oh, _oh_ …!”

You don’t know if it’s possible for you to thrust harder but you try, and he arches his back up—you don’t know if the look on his face is abandon or determination—and then he’s coming, shuddering through it—and you are, too, you’re pressing your face into his neck and fucking him relentlessly, the release of your orgasm more painful than pleasurable.

When you open your eyes, you’ve pulled yourself back up, and Charles has his hands on the sides of your face. His face is slack from his orgasm, but his eyes look sad. And that’s—that’s really it—you can’t be here anymore, you can’t—oh god, you just _fucked_ him—

You push him away, hissing as you roughly pull yourself out, and stumble backwards on shaking legs. You grab the first pair of sweats you see and pull them on, slamming the door behind you. The sun is just now beginning to rise, and in the faint light you move clumsily toward the closet to grab your coat, wrapping it around your naked chest as you then move toward your small balcony. You shove the door open and don’t even notice the chill of the asphalt on your bare feet.

The pack of cigarettes and your lighter are still in your coat pockets. You pull a cigarette out and bite down on it, fumbling with the lighter. You can’t get it to catch and you burn your fingers. You drop the cigarette over the railing. It was half-lit.

You get another. You try to calm down and this time you light it, but you suck in your first drag too quickly and cough, swearing. You throw the cigarettes and your lighter over the railing and, resting your elbows on it, press your face into your hands, your body shaking.


	2. charles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> per the request of darkxblackxrain at lj, here's a sequel!

Erik had run out of the room right after he had finished, wide-eyed in panic. You swallow down the taste of bile and continue to breathe (you’re still catching your breath from the sex).

It was good sex--it was _great_ sex, like it always is--but you know that doesn’t justify it. _I’ve done worse,_ you think defensively, but you still know it’s not right. How could you do that to Erik? But oh, oh, you know. You wanted to hurt him. You wanted to use him. You wanted him to feel like you felt. It was stupid and vindictive and harsh and yet... you don’t quite regret it.

No. It wasn’t vindictive, it wasn’t harsh. You both wanted it, obviously Erik wanted it, with how easily he gave into you. And yes, you wanted it, you wanted it desperately. You miss him despite yourself. And yet, you still regret it. And no, you didn’t want to hurt Erik--how could you ever want that? But you’d wanted him despite that, and you’ve probably hurt him now... all you wanted was him, was that so wrong?

Your mind flashes back to Erik’s face when he’d realized what had happened and fled. You throw an arm over your eyes and hit your head back into the pillow. This was a mistake, all of it. You should have had Erik take you to your apartment last night. You should have slept on his couch. You should have-- you should have--

The regrets pile up and you twist to your side in the bed, guilt and fear mixing uncomfortably in your chest. See if Erik ever wants to talk to you again after this. See if he doesn’t kick you out now, right on the sidewalk, naked and without your luggage.

 _Oh God_ , you think. _What have I done now?_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“Are you sure about this, Charles?” Raven asks. You had slept with Erik for the first time the night before, at the end of season party at your apartment. It had been rough and perfect; you had ridden him, reveling in his vulnerable gasps and moans. At the end you had asked him to stay with the team and he had agreed to, albeit reluctantly._

_“What do you mean, dear?” you ask, sipping your tea. The two of you had gone out for a late--very late-- brunch and you were nursing your hangover._

_She narrows her eyes at you slightly. “Don’t play dumb. Erik.”_

_“Hm, Erik,” you say with a smile, thinking of how good he had looked naked. Crew had been good to his muscles._

_“Oh my god,” she says, throwing her napkin at you. “You’re so gross.” You dodge the napkin and laugh, laughing harder but more quietly when it hits the old man behind you in the head._

_“So?” She asks, taking a drink of her mimosa (the waiter hadn’t checked her ID). “Why won’t you talk to me about it?”_

_“This might be a good one,” you say, “at least, he’s quite good in the--”_

_She covers up her ears. “Charles! I don’t want to hear it!”_

_You stir the spoon in your tea and lift an eyebrow as you look at her. “Well, this certainly makes no sense. You’ve always begged for details of my.. escapades before.”_

_“Yeah, well,” Raven says, “your escapes never included a crew god before, and I_ know _him. It’s kind of weird.”_

_“I don’t think any of us know Erik,” you say, your tone suddenly serious._

_Her face softens in sympathy for him. “No,” she agrees. “Probably not.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


You wait for an hour, but he doesn’t return to the bedroom. It’s horrible. You’ve got no company but your guilt and regret and _damn it_ , you’ve slept with your exes before and it was stupid but it was never _this bad_. It’s because you didn’t care what they thought of you, you realize, and you still care about Erik’s opinion.

“I’m sorry, Erik,” you whisper to the ceiling.

“Good,” Erik says from the doorway. You jump, eyes wide, and turn to look at him. His face is shuttered; closed off to you. It hurts. “Otherwise I’d throw you out.”

You watch him, unsure what he’ll say. Will he kick you out? But Erik doesn’t-- he just holds up a hand and you blink, still watching him curiously.

“You can take the bed,” he says, voice soft, almost as if he’s saying _I’ve done worse_. You wince and nod.

“Okay,” you say.

“I’m going to sleep on the couch,” Erik says. “Like you said, we’ll talk about this in the morning.”

You nod, numb, staring at the floor until he leaves. When he’s gone, you let out the breath you’d been holding, and roll back into the bed. _Sleep_ , you beg yourself, and luckily enough, after another hour, it comes.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_It takes many more nights of sleeping together and spending the mornings after together, but eventually you bully Erik into taking you out for a proper date._

_“You clean up nice,” you say when he arrives at your door two hours early, lifting an eyebrow. He’s wearing his crew gear. You’re wearing a nice shirt and pressed slacks._

_“Get changed,” he says, smiling slightly. “And not into your coxswain gear. Rowing gear.”_

_He drives you to the boathouse and picks the lock deftly with a skill that tells you he’s done it before. You laugh, unable to help yourself. “Done quite a bit of solo practice, have you?”_

_Erik grunts in affirmation and holds open the door for you. You walk in and flip on the lights._

_“We’re going to take a double out,” he says, and heads to his locker. He takes out a basket and a bottle of wine._

_“Oh, Erik,” you say, pressing a hand to your chest. “Did you...?”_

_It might be the shadows falling over his face, but you swear he blushes._

_“We’re rowing to the island and having a picnic,” he says gruffly. “So help me with the boat.”_

_“Absolutely,” you say, grinning._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


You wake up with the same sick taste in your mouth. You get up and walk to Erik’s bathroom blearily and reach for your toothbrush, but it’s not there. You realize with a sinking feeling that Erik threw it out. Of course he did. It makes sense. You broke up. Why would he keep anything to remind him of you. (You still have Erik’s toothbrush and clothes at your apartment and you’ve slept in his ratty old sweatshirt more times than you like to admit).

 _What do you want, Charles?_ you ask yourself in Erik’s voice. _What do you want from me?_

You shake your head and then splash water on your face, willing yourself to wake up. You and Erik have to talk. In fact, you hear Erik in his kitchen, the sound of the coffeemaker and the hiss of something on the stove.

You find your toothbrush in your luggage and brush your teeth with your own toothpaste (it feels wrong, to use Erik’s things-- just like it feels wrong to be here now). You dress and look at the closed door and, squaring your shoulders, walk out of the bedroom.

When you step into the kitchen, Erik looks up.

You give a small wave. He lifts his hand in response.

The line of his shoulders are tight and you know he’s angry. Suddenly defensive, you think to yourself _you treated me so awfully, don’t you deserve this?_ harshly, and immediately you regret it and swallow it down. What was that you had said to him one time? “I’m not in the business of cutting people down?” Maybe just those who you keep far away, and not those you let close.

You move into the kitchen and he sets a plate down for you on the counter, and next a glass of juice. He’s scrambled eggs, sausage, and vegetables together.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice thick. He cooked you breakfast. Even after last night, he cooked you breakfast.

Erik only inclines his head in response. You recognize the signs; this has happened before. When he’s angry with you and can’t speak because anything he’d say would be cruel, and any cruel thing he’d say he wouldn’t really mean.

You eat and soon he sits across from you and eats as well (no juice for him, only coffee-- normally he’d make you tea, but he remembered that you like juice with your eggs).

He takes the dishes when you’re both done and slips them into the dishwasher. You curl your fingers on your thighs, looking down. You were hurt, you think  to yourself. You were terrified of being around him again, not know what either of you would do. You’d lashed out in desperation-- sleeping with him was the only thing you could think to do; it was all that had been on your mind.. It was probably wrong, but understandable, the more that you think about it.

  
  
  
  
  
  


_Your first fight as a couple had been at your apartment, after a regatta. You’d were both exhausted. You’d picked up food at something like a McDonald’s and eaten it in the car on the way back, dropped off Raven, and headed back to your place. In fact, the fight had started soon before, but for propriety’s sake, you both kept it quiet while Raven was with you._

_“I can’t believe,” Erik says as soon as she’s gone, hands gripping the wheel tightly, “that you just waved it off.”_

_“What?” you ask, cross, “that the team was putting steroids in_ my _bottle of aspirin?”_

_“Yes!” he explodes, taking a turn a little too quickly. You grip the handle of your door and calm your breathing._

_“What was I supposed to do, Erik?” you sigh, reaching a hand up to brush hair out of your eyes._

_He looks over at you. “You’re supposed to tell me these things,” he says. “If you don’t, I can’t--”_

_You’ve arrived at your apartment now and you shake your head at him. “Just.. come inside. Let’s get to bed,” you say. He grunts, annoyed, but complies, and the two of you peel yourselves off of the car seats and head inside._

_He sits on the couch after you’ve dumped your things into the bedroom, and then gets up, going to your back porch. “I’m having a cigarette,” he calls._

_“Fine,” you say. It’s a thing that you two haven’t fought about, per se, but he’s picked up on how your teasing him about quitting is more than teasing._

_You wash up and strip out of your spandex, groaning as it sticks. You toss it in the laundry hamper and pick up your pajamas, pulling them on. By the time you’re ready for bed, he’s come back inside, smelling of smoke. You may hate the cigarettes (which is a lie, you smoke sometimes), but there’s something attractive and heady about the smell on him (or maybe just about Erik)._

_When you’re both in bed, he has his back to you, which is different than usual. You wait about ten minutes and then huff, turning over and curl a hand around the bone of his shoulder. It’s been bothering you, what he didn’t say in the car._

_“Erik,” you say quietly, “What you were saying in the car earlier... what did you mean you ‘can’t’ something?” You stroke his arm gently, soothing whatever reticence he might have, which, knowing Erik..._

_“Forget it,” he says, working some finality into his tone._

_Unluckily for him, you can be just as stubborn. “I don’t want to make any assumptions,” you say calmly. “That’s why I’m asking. It’s an opportunity for you to say what you want to say.”_

_“I know what a question is, Charles,” he sighs, and rolls onto his back. You stay on your side, looking down at him. He looks at you, then away._

_“If you don’t tell me things like that,” he says slowly, quietly, “then I can’t protect you.”_

_“Oh, Erik,” you breathe, and move close._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“So.”

Erik leans back against the counter, his arms crossed. It’s the first thing he’s said to you all morning.

“So,” you repeat weakly. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“That was damn stupid, Charles,” he growls.

You run a hand through your hair. “I know,” you say. “I’m sorry, Erik.” But you’re not, you’re not really sorry, so why are you saying it? Because it’s what good people say in these situations?

“I can’t exactly get angry at you for sex,” he sighs--a joke!--and you look up, surprised. But good.

“I suppose,” you say. “It’s not like neither of us hadn’t wanted it.”

He glares at you, but there’s a smirk dancing around his lips.

“Look,” Erik says, getting serious, “I-- I picked you up to try to fix this.” He waves his hand between the two of you. “Regardless of me wanting you back, we can’t...” he sighs and rubs at his face, “we can’t just have sex like that. Without having talked about everything.”

You tilt your head to the side, curious. Erik has never been this calm or self-aware  with you before when he’s upset, but that may just mean he’s tightly leashed. “I know,” you say softly. “I apologized, Erik; I don’t know what else I can do.”

“You could take me back,” he says, just as softly.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“Eeeerik,” you slur. You’re hanging off of Erik, stumbling while he tries to support you. Is he drunk? You’re drunk. He should be drunk. Everybody should be drunk! It’s fun._

_“Eeeeeeeerik,” you say again, poking him in the side._

_“What?” Erik says, looking down at you. He’s so handsome. You bagged a good one. Go you!_

_“I like you,” you say with a large grin. “I’m glad you’re here.”_

_“Is that so?” he asks. You’ve gotten  to the car and he opens the door and helps you into the passenger seat._

_“You’re probably drunk too,” you say as he closes the door on you. When he gets into the driver’s side, you look over at him and say, very seriously, “you shouldn’t drive while ine... ineeeee.... inaaay...”_

_“Inebriated?” he asks, the corners of his mouth twitching._

_“Yes!” you say, clapping your hands together. “That’s the word. God, Erik, you’re so smart. I did good, as they say.”_

_“I’m not inebriated,” Erik says. “I’m the designated driver. Someone else is inebriated.”_

_You look over at him, mouth open. “Oh dear. It’s not Raven, is it? She gets so rowdy when drunk.”_

_Erik just bares his teeth in a full-fledged grin._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I...” you say, “I...” but no, you _have_ to say it, you have to do this _right_. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea, Erik.” You fold your hands together on top of your thighs and force yourself to look up at him. He’s gritting his teeth and his eyes are... well, they’re hard-- typical Erik.

“After practically forcing yourself on me last night, you’re going to say it’s not a good idea?” he snaps.

“I didn’t,” you sputter, “I hardly _forced_ myself upon you, you wanted it as much as I did.” you say. “But I can’t... we... we do these stupid things to each other, Erik.”

“Maybe _you_ do,” he says, and crosses his arms tighter across his chest. Building defenses.

“See? It’s stuff like this.” You sigh. “We don’t treat each other well.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


_Erik comes home to find you sitting cross-legged on their bed in Erik's clothes--really, you’re not  as thin as Erik but your shoulders were nowhere near as broad; the white oxford is barely buttoned and hanging off one shoulder and those shorts are much too small for your waist--and blinking intermittently at his computer screen. All of the lights are off in the bedroom; Erik must be able to see only by the faint glow of the laptop. You’re resting your right hand on the keyboard and your left stuck into a bag of chocolates. The cup of tea on the bedside table has the odd smell Erik associates with what he calls your “drug teas.”_

_After a minute, you sigh with great effort and tap out a few words with your right index finger. You blinks hard and your hand stays down on the keys, no doubt filling the document with a nice illegible stream of  bbbbbbbbbbbbbbbb in the middle of a paragraph on this or that gene. You lift a piece of dark chocolate out of the bag and pushes it into your mouth half-heartedly, then washes it down with the_ _tea_ _._

_"How long have you been awake?" Erik asks quietly after he's walked over to stand next to the bed and switched on a lamp. You start, spilling_ _tea_ _over yourself. You blink up at Erik through the dark-and smile when you recognize him._

_"Erik, darling," You slur._

_Erik narrows his eyes as he looks you over. “You look exhausted,” he says. You’ve got classes you’re assisting and a dissertation to write, of course you’re exhausted. Erik’s been gone four days for the regatta and that gave you plenty of time to work and--_

_"When was the last time you slept?" Erik tries again, dropping his duffel onto the floor. He looks on the bed as if looking for a place to sit, but you have papers and books strewn everywhere. Only you would find some way to build a nest of academia over every inch of their bed._

_You wave a hand at him. "Unim... unimportant."_

_"What are you drinking?" Erik sighs, exasperated, and takes the mug from your hand. "_ _Tea_ _and whiskey? Charles. Don't tell me that tastes good." Erik doesn’t need to talk  to him-- it’s futile anyway; you’re barely coherent and have put another piece of chocolate into your mouth, focus already returned to the computer screen._

_"It's three in the morning," Erik mutters. He looks at the mug as if contemplating taking it to the kitchen, but places it on the bedside table instead. "I drove back right after the closing ceremonies."_

_"That was nice of you, dear," You say drowsily, typing a new paragraph. "I'm sure they all appreciated it."_

_"Yes, they did," Erik says, and gently tugs the laptop out of Charles's hands. You squawk and glare at him, mouth hanging open. Erik just raises an eyebrow and hits 'save' before shutting the computer down and walking over to place it on a desk. "I was working," you mumble._

_"Yes," Erik says. He walks back to the bed and pauses for a moment as he looks the papers over. He shuffles them into a few different piles and takes those over to the desk, too. You just blink and watch him as he does so, hands limp in your lap. The bag of chocolate has fallen over and spilled onto the comforter. Erik cleans that up as well, then strips out of his sweatshirt and sweatpants to get out of his spandex and tosses it all into the (overflowing) laundry hamper. He scrubs a hand over his face and rummages around in the dresser for some clean clothes._

_Erik walks back to the bed where you’re still sitting and blinking at him, and gently presses your  shoulder back until you’re lying down. "Bed," Erik says._

_You close your eyes. "Mmm," you murmur, smiling, and wrap your arms around one of Erik’s. "Come. Come down.. here."_

_Erik rolls his eyes. "You're impossible." But he frees himself from your (admittedly, pretty lax) grip to lift the sheets and comforter and pull them over you before slipping in next to you and turning off the light. You’re half-asleep now but make a soft noise when you feel Erik pull you close._

_"Missed you," you sigh, fingers curling in the fabric of Erik's shirt. You’ve tucked his head under his chin. "Gone.. long time."_

_"Just a few days," Erik says softly, stroking your hair._

_"Mm." You hum. "Smell."_

_"What?" Erik's sighs, sounding weary._

_"You smell."_

_"So do you."_

_You laugh._

_Erik kisses the top of your head and lets his hand fall down to stroke your back, his other hand finding yours  on his chest and holding it loosely. "Go to sleep, Charles."_

_"Yes, sleep, mar... marvelous idea," you murmur, and then you’re out._

  
  
  
  
  


 

Erik doesn’t have anything to say in response to that, it seems. It’s true, though, isn’t it? You both just continue to hurt each other. You sigh again and run both your hands through your hair again; nervous habit. “I... I want to, Erik, but I just don’t know,” you say helplessly. “Your temper, your obsession with Shaw... I need you to understand that those are so.. so _hard_ for me to deal with.”

“They’re parts of me,” Erik says stiffly, almost as if he’s saying _how dare you?_

“I know,” you say, resting your forearms on the counter. “And the person being with you should treasure all parts of you.” You smile, and then add quickly, “and I do!”

“Then what’s your point, Charles?” Erik’s patience is wearing thin, you can tell. And yet, he’s still calm, still listening. He’s trying, you realize. He’s trying for you.

“I don’t think you do, or did,” you say softly. “That you did understand. How hard it was for me. How... hurt I was.”

“And what about me?” Erik says, nearly biting out the words. “This is all about you so far, Charles, but at first you were saying neither of us treated each other well. Is this your ploy? To play the victim so I feel sorry for you?”

“No!” you say, “you’re-- you’re missing the point, Erik. I can only talk about myself,” you say, “I can only give you my own experience. I can’t give you yours.”

“You should at least acknowledge it,” he says stiffly, “or try to.”

“I _am_ trying,” you say, your voice rising, “but you have to help me!” You think of adding something like _it takes two_ or _I can’t make this relationship work on my own_ , but swallow the words down.

“Help you how?!” Erik yells, and there, there it is, there’s the anger he’s been holding back. You flinch as if struck but sit forward again to show you’re (mostly) unfazed. Alright, if this is how he wants to play, this is how you’re going to play.

“You have to tell me how you feel,” you say, emphasizing each word with a staccato articulation like you’re speaking to a child. Because Erik can be such a child, and you have to stand your ground, too.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“Why don’t you tell me things?” Erik asks you one night while you’re in bed._

_“What do you mean?” you ask, confused._

_He shrugs. “You don’t... talk about your childhood, or younger years, or anything. You just want to hear about mine.”_

_You’re quiet. You don’t talk about your childhood because it’s not happy, and you’ve always wanted to keep your partners happy. More than one had told you that’s not the way to be with someone, but you can’t seem to break the habit. Many a relationship had ended with the other person saying, “Charles, I just don’t know you.”_

_“I like hearing about you,” you say. “I’m... boring.”_

_He looks at you and smiles. “I doubt it.”_

_Would Erik really want to hear it? About your father, your mother, and Kurt, and Cain? You’ve told him a little bit about Raven, and Raven’s told him a little bit about growing up with you--shouldn’t that be enough?_

_“There’s really not much to say,” you try, and the smile falls from his face._

_“Fine, Charles,” he sighs. “Let’s just drop it.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  


Erik glares at you.

“If you don’t tell me how you feel, I won’t know,” you say. “I may be perceptive and know you a bit better than everyone else, but I can’t read your mind. You have to help me, Erik.” You sigh when he doesn’t respond. “Okay. Let’s try this. What are you feeling now?”

“I’m furious with you,” he says in a rush. “You’re confusing me and all I wanted to do was set this straight but you have to go and have me take you here and sleep in my bed and sleep with me when both,” his voice rises to a yell, “when both of us know it was a horrible idea! I’m angry that you would use me in that way, like some sort of sex puppet, and I’m angry with you for talking to me like a child, like I have no idea how to have a relationship.”

 _But you don’t_ , you don’t say. You don’t think Erik does. Is that a problem? It is kind of holier-than-thou.

You want to say _good job_ but that would only make him angrier and probably make him throw you out. Was this a bad idea, trying again? Is there no hope for the two of you? Are you just going to argue forever?

“Okay,” you say, voice tight. “Now I know how you feel.”

“And how, _how_ is  that going to make this any better, Charles?” he sneers.

“It gives me an idea of you so I’m not just dealing with myself,” you snap. “God, Erik, don’t you ever listen  to me?”

“Yes! I listen to you nag all the time!” He takes a step forward when he speaks and you hold yourself fast, as much as you want to curl in. All this yelling reminds you of the night you decided to end it, and the pain comes bubbling up fast in your belly and chest.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

_“I’m going to get your stepbrother,” Erik says, after you finally tell him about Kurt and Cain the next night. “And your stepfather. So that’s why you have that scar.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe it.”_

_You shrug sheepishly. “Not all of us have loving mothers.”_

_Erik smiles wistfully, thinking of Edie. You feel a pang in your chest--jealousy. Maybe if your mother had loved you more than the alcohol and painkillers, it would have made a difference._

_He turns to you. “But you turned out so well,” he says, disbelievingly, “you’re so kind. I don’t understand it.”_

_You smile. “Oh, Erik. I just decided to be. I’m not that great, really.”_

_“You are,” he says, kissing your forehead. “You are to me.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


You hold your head in your hands and close your eyes. “Maybe talking was a stupid idea,” you say, “maybe we can’t fix this, Erik.”

“No,” he says forcefully, desperately, “no, we can. _I_ can.”

You open your eyes and look up at him. “Are you serious?” you ask. “Are you just focused on a goal here?”

“I said I would fix this,” he says, determined. “So I’m going to.”

“It’s not like something you just... just... just stitch back up again with new thread!” you say, unable to think of a better metaphor. “It’s messy and difficult and it _takes time_.”

“So let’s take time!” Erik says. Which, oh, coming from the most impatient man in the world, that’s rich. “Let’s do this, Charles, let’s make it work.”

“I don’t know if I can,” you say quickly. “I already told you that.”

“What’s holding you back?” he asks, narrowing his eyes in confusion, but opening up his folded arms to hold out his hands in question.

“I have to...” and yes, you have to say it, “I have to... look out for myself, Erik,” you say, and a weight is lifted off your chest. You think you said this to him before, the morning after the fight, after a sleepless night composing your speech. “You hurt me so deeply,” you confess again. “I didn’t know if it was worth it anymore. And I still don’t know.”

Erik is silent while he digests your words. You look down at your fidgeting hands and sigh quietly. You want to leave; run away. This is why your relationships don’t last. Because you end up not knowing if you want to make it work after trying once to do so. It’s so much effort, and is it ever worth it?

“Do you want me?” Erik asks. You look up, surprised at the question. “What?” you say.

“I asked, do you want me?” Erik says again. “Do you still want me despite all of that?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“Come here,” you say, pulling Erik close after everyone else has left the boathouse after practice. He comes to you and you tug him even closer by the hands until you’re pressed together. You lean up to kiss him and he hums into it, pleased._

_“I was thinking,” you say, turning your head to the side. Erik chases your lips and kisses you again and you laugh. “I said, I was thinking,” you place a finger to his lips, “about old times, about you walking in on me in the showers...” his pupils dilate and you grin. “I think we should have sex in the boathouse.”_

_Erik suddenly starts laughing, big, barking laughs that shake his chest. “No way,” he says, shaking his head. “Think of all the riverwater. Do you know how unsanitary that would be?”_

_“But I want you,” you say in a whine, pulling at his shirt. “I want you now, Erik.”_

_“Then let’s go to the showers,” he murmurs in your ear. “I’ll take care of you there.”_

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


You stare at him helplessly.

“What kind of a question is that?” you ask, incredulous.

“I said, do you want me?” Erik asks again, calmly, but slowly. Now you’re the one being spoken to as if you’re a child.

“And I said, what kind of question is that?” you sputter, “how can you-- how dare you-- how can you even think of asking me that?”

“Why is there a problem here?” Erik asks, shaking his head and sighing. “I’m asking you a simple question, Charles.”

But it’s _not_ , the problem is that it’s not a simple question. Oh, you know your answer, of course, but for Erik to ask you just seems... out of line. Or at least, you can’t believe he asked it of you. _Shouldn’t he know the answer?_ you think, but your own words return to you, that no one can know how you feel unless you tell them. _Hypocrite_ , you tell yourself.

You work your mouth in silence, trying to come up with words. Erik throws his hands up in the air and huffs, clearly finished with you.

And even though you know you were the one who ended the relationship, at this moment pain lances in you so sharply and your face crumples. You’re losing Erik, you’re losing him _again_.

“Yes,” you finally say, breathing out the words, “Yes, you idiot, of _course_ I do. Did last night mean nothing to you?”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“Okay, what changed your mind? You have to tell me,” You say, and then shake your head. It’s the day after the night you spent out in the rain waiting for Erik to open his door. He had brought you inside the next morning and taken care of you, but there were still things that the two of you needed to discuss._

_“I don’t_ have _to do anything,” he says, but there’s no bite in it. He begins grinding coffee beans. Okay, so he’s trying to signal the end of the argument. It’s cute that he thinks he can get away with that. Clearly he doesn’t know you._

_When the beans have finished grinding, he sets about getting the grounds into a filter and into the coffee pot. You wrinkle your nose in distaste-- you’re a tea and french press man._

_“Erik,” you say, more gently this time, “I can’t magically be what you want.”_

_He turns, confused. “Whoever said that was what I wanted?”_

_You smile sadly. “I think it’s what we all want, and it takes us awhile to realize it. We either idealize our partners or expect too much of them.”_

_Erik walks over to where you’re sitting on the stool and leans down to kiss you. You’re surprised, but return the kiss regardless. He pulls back and strokes a hand down your cheek, eyes soft. He presses a kiss to your cheek and murmurs into your ear, “but I love you.” He noses your cheek. “We’ll be okay.”_

_Your hand tightens where you’re gripping his shoulder. You almost ask_ really? _but don’t._

_“I love you, too,” you say instead, grinning despite yourself._

  
  
  
  
  
  


Erik looks at you.

Your face flushes. You’re thinking of the first time he told you that he loved you. He looks like he’s looking at you for the first time, like he did then, like he did every time he told you.

You give him a half-hearted glare. “Well?” you ask.

“Good,” is what Erik finally says. “Because I--”

“But that’s not the issue,” you say, forcing your way in before he can do or say anything else, like, god forbid, kiss you. That would ruin everything.

His eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Isn’t it?” he asks. “Isn’t that the only thing?”

“No,” you say, your tone firm, “like I said, we have to consider whether we’re good for each other or not. Have you not...” you say before you can help yourself, “have you not had this problem before, Erik?”

“No,” he says. “Normally my relationships just die and that’s it.”

 _Me too_ , you don’t say. Wait--why _are_ you trying so hard? You ended it, you don’t even need to be here, having this conversation. You don’t owe Erik anything besides that apology for last night, which you’ve given. And hell, you don’t really owe him that.

“But you want this to work,” you exhale, “is that why we’re having a conversation?”

“I wouldn’t exactly call this a conversation,” he says. “It feels more like you’re lecturing me.”

“I’m just talking about what we need to consider,” you say. “Don’t you understand?”

Erik shrugs one shoulder. “I suppose I do. So what? I want you, you want me, we’ll make it work.”

“But we didn’t, Erik,” you say, your tone helpless again, “we didn’t make it work, that’s why I had to break it off, it hurt me too much--”

“God, Charles, I _know_ it hurt you! Why can’t we just try again, knowing all of that?” Erik asks.

“Because what makes you think we won’t just repeat what we’ve done before?” you say. “And what makes you think I feel comfortable enough to try again?”

Erik winces at that. “I don’t,” he admits, “I don’t know. I know I probably don’t deserve it.”

He opens his mouth and then closes it, like he had more things to say but decided against them. You wait patiently, intrigued. Erik admitting he doesn’t deserve something? Well, you check yourself, that’s not anything new--he always said he didn’t deserve you.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“You’re good to me,” Erik says. “I don’t deserve you.”_

_“That’s silly,” you say, and wonder why he’s saying this while you’re in a department store shopping for shirts. You turn around and give him a confused smile. “What brought this on, love?”_

_He shrugs. “You’re shopping for my shirts and later we’re going out for new crew spandex. No one’s ever cared much about that before.”_

_You click your tongue. “Someone’s got to take care of you.”_

_He sighs, but smiles. You know Erik doesn’t easily accept your care, so you try in every way you can to show it. Buying shirts you can do, and if that makes him realize that you do care, then you’ll do it._

_When you’re both in the car later, you say quietly, “You know, I probably don’t deserve you, either.” You put your hand over his where it’s resting on the gear shift and squeeze it gently. When you stop at an intersection, Erik leans over to kiss you, lingering._

_“Let’s not deserve each other together,” you say with a smile._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I told myself,” Erik finally says, “that I’d fix this. Tell me what to do, Charles.”

“No,” you say, frowning. “That’s not--” You open and close your mouth. You close your eyes. You have to be delicate here, because yes, you do want Erik, and yes, you probably always will, but until he realizes that you’re more important than Shaw, you shouldn’t, you _shouldn’t shouldn’t shouldn’t_ get back together with him. That’s how it has to be, you tell yourself. Raven would be proud of you, thinking through this logically and not just going after what you want.

You open your eyes. “Erik,” you say very seriously, “I broke up with you because I was less important than Shaw to you. If you want to try this again, you need to realize that I need to be more important to you than him. I know that I’ve been in your life less than your revenge, but those are my terms.” You’re shaking, you realize, very slightly, but you are. Why are you scared? No, you know why, you know you’re scared of him rejecting you again, just like that night.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“Raven,” you say, tears falling into your mouth. “Raven, please come over.”_

_Thank god you don’t live too far from Erik’s house. Thank god you there are no other drivers on the road at this time of night. You can barely see._

_“Raven,” you hiccup through a sob, “please pick up.”_

_When you get back to your apartment, you calmly put the car in park and turn it off. Then you press your face into your hands and sob again, shaking. Oh God. Oh God, did you really just do that? Did you really just break up with Erik?_

_You sob and sob and lose track of time until you hear someone tapping at your window. You look up. It’s Raven, her face pale and concerned._

_“Charles,” you hear her say through the window, “Charles, it’s raining, let’s go inside!”_

_You nod and unlock the door, willing yourself to move. She puts an arm around your shoulder and walks you to your door, taking the keys from your shaking hands and unlocking it for you._

_Once you’re inside you nearly collapse on the floor but she leads you to a couch and sits you down. Once she’s sitting too, she wraps you in a hug. You cling to her and cry. She’s scared. She’s never seen you like this before._

_“Erik,” you finally make out, and she goes still._

_“Did Erik hurt you?” she asks quickly, “Charles, if he hit you, I’ll--”_

_“I broke up with Erik,” you finish. “I-- I-- I-- I had to, Raven.”_

_You lean back and look at her through your tears. “What have I done? He’s been the best thing and I just.... I just left him... I know I had to... I know I had to...”_

_She reaches up and wipes at your face. “Oh, Charles,” she says._

_You bury your face back into her shoulder and continue to cry, shaking your head when she asks you what happened and refusing to talk._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“I think...” Erik says, though it’s clear he’s struggling with the words. “I think you are the most important thing. For me.”

You want to ask _really?_ but hold your tongue. This must be difficult for him and you respect that.

“I’m not sure if I’ll give up on revenge on Shaw,” he says, looking at you determinedly, “but I don’t... I don’t want that to cost me you.”

“Would you let me help you,” you say, “would you let me help you think of a different way for revenge besides murder?”

He sighs. “Nothing else would be as satisfying.”

“Erik,” you say gently, “Shaw didn’t... he didn’t kill anyone, did he?”

“Not that I know of,” he growls, “but he made my training a hell and nearly killed me with how hard he worked me, and he even tried to get with my mother. Thankfully she was smart enough not to.”

“I know,” you say softly, your heart heavy with love and sympathy. God, you can’t help yourself, you still love him, you still want to be with him. And if he’ll _try_ , is that enough? “But Erik, I don’t think you can have the revenge that you want and also have me.”

“The revenge has a definite end,” Erik says, “my relationship with you does not, or, at least, I don’t want it to. They’re two different things.”

“You ignored me and treated me badly,” you say angrily, “all because of your vendetta. I will not agree to a relationship where that still holds more importance than me.”

“And I don’t think it does anymore, Charles!” Erik yells. “I told you, I don’t fix my relationships, I let them die. But I can’t let this one die. I... I want you too much for  that. I _need_ you too much for that.”

It’s the most honest and open you’ve seen him, besides the many times he’s told you he loves you. You swallow against the emotion building up in your throat and sigh internally. What are you going to do with yourself? _Yes yes yes, let’s do it again_ is stuck in your chest, trying to work its way up into your mouth, but you force it down.

You look down and to the side, pressing your lips together. “I just... don’t know, Erik,” you say softly. “I’m honestly not certain either way.”

You hear him exhale, nearly a sigh.

“What do I have to do, Charles?” he asks again. “Just tell me. Just tell me what I have to do.”

“I need to be more important to you than Shaw,” you say again.

“You _are_ ,” Erik says, and you look up at him, eyes wide. Can he really-- does he really--? This time, does he mean it?

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_“Who is this man, Shaw?” you ask after practice one day. “I’ve heard you mention him but I don’t know who he is.”_

_Erik had stiffened as soon as you had said the name. “He’s a bastard who doesn’t deserve your attention or awareness.”_

_You’re surprised at how he responded--  not that you’re unused to Erik’s moods, but the harshness of it... “Erik...”_

_“Really, Charles,” he’d said, turning to you. “You’re better off not knowing.”_

_You find out later, through--gently--prodding Erik about it, and through the internet, that Shaw was his former trainer for many years. Shaw eventually lost his coaching position to malpractice, though you’re not sure what that means in the rowing world. You can’t find any information on where he is now, but you know that he was Erik’s coach when Erik was going to the Olympics on the American team, and the Olympics have always been a touchy subject with him._

_It was at the Olympics that Erik walked away from an event and cost his team any chance at a title._

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Erik,” you breathe, hoping despite yourself.

“I didn’t realize it before, but after I lost you,” he continues, arms crossed tight against his chest, “the thought of Shaw wasn’t enough to keep me going.” He looks up at you. “All I thought about was you, Charles.”

“Erik, I--” you try to say, but he cuts you off.

“I’m sorry for the way I treated you and I want to be better. I want to fix this. I want to be with you again. That’s all I really have to say.”

He walks over to the counter and takes one of your hands in both of his, holding it gently. You look at your hands and then up at him, apprehensive. His palms are warm and rough and comforting, like they always were.

“Please, Charles,” Erik says quietly.

You’re quiet for a few moments, and then you speak. “Okay,” you say just as quietly as he had spoken, nodding your head. “Okay.”

Erik leans in and kisses you softly, his nose nudging your cheek. You lift your free hand and press it gently against the side of his face when he pulls away, holding him there.

“We’re both going to be better,” you say, and Erik nods.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


_You’ve just finished practice for the day and have stepped out of the shell. The rowers have picked it up and are waiting for your call, the new one, Erik, at the front. The water dripping down Erik's shoulders and through his shirt probably reeks of the lake, but it’s also probably welcome, as you know, most likely it’s cooling down his chest. It’s obnoxious that he doesn't wait for the rest of the eight to get situated to his height for the carry and the shorter girls huff, their fingertips barely touching the edges of the shell._

_He stands still, waiting for the call._

_"Does everyone have everything?" You call down from the stern. "Jean, love, I think your water bottle is still stuck in the boat." The shell shudders as Jean digs out a large nalgene from in front of a footboard and wet footsteps slap down the dock as she walks toward you to hand you the bottle. "Ah, thank you. Alright, everyone, I've still got all your clothes, so be sure to see me after we set her into the boathouse. Erik, if you would please start us off."_

_Erik begins walking, obediently and efficiently following your calls--swing to the left, swing to the right, watch for the riggers--and stops just before the entrance to the boathouse. The scullers and those in the fours today are already out of the water and their shells put away, so they help set up two slings for the eight. "Move to shoulders!" You call. "Down to waists. Alright. Now, roll her keel to the right and set her down gently."_

_While the rest of the boat is hosing the shell down, you see Erik walk into the boathouse. You follow him and watch as he takes out a roll of thick tape from his duffel and wraps a section around the meat of his right palm just below his fingers, hissing as he pulls it tight over new blisters from this morning._

_You click your tongue from where you’re standing behind him. "Not without any antiseptic, first?"_

_Erik turns to see you. Erik may be relatively new to this team, but he's a finer rower than everyone else, and you know it. He knows it, too. He stands proudly in spite of his most likely sore muscles and the stiff ache that is probably already beginning to seep into his fingers as you assess him. You can tell that he’s thinking that you look ridiculous in all of your layers and with the microphone still strapped around your head, pushing your hair past the point of unkempt, your face red and ruddy from the wind. You hold him easily with your gaze, however._

_"You may feel as if it's below you to do this, but the novices did benefit today," You say, then pause. "Though it would have been better if their stroke could fall into the pattern easier." Your eyes glitter but you smile at Erik generously."If you'd like, I have some extra time after practice. We could head over to the gym and work on smoothing out your shift between stroke rates on the erg, if you'd like."_

_Erik bristles, surprised. "Your calls are too late. You're not pushing them hard enough," he says._

_You shrug. "It's Monday."_

_"Would you rather push them harder Friday? They'll hardly perform."_

_"It's their first day back on the river in quite some time," You answer serenely, handing out water bottles and sweatshirts to rowers as they come up to you_

_Erik scoffs, turning away to pack up his duffel. "That's a weak excuse." He stiffens when you place a hand on his shoulder._

_"You may have been rowing single scull for some time, my friend, but we all started out in eights. You would do well to remember those who depend on you."_

_Erik shrugs your hand off. He slings his duffel over his shoulder and turns to face you. "Are we done?" he growls._

_You laugh._

_"Oh," you answer, "not in the slightest."_

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
